


Heartbreaking

by Steamshovelmama



Category: Primeval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamshovelmama/pseuds/Steamshovelmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fix-it fic for That Thing That Did Not Happen in season 3 of Primeval (well, one of them. There were three main character deaths in that season. We had to form a support group>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreaking

**Author's Note:**

> Primeval fandom was unusual in having a number of shared OMCs who peopled the special forces regiment. Lyle and Ditzy were created by LJ's Fred Bassett and Lyle (think Daniel Craig!) was regularly shipped with the show's James Lester.

17.30.00

The rumble caused Ditzy’s and Lyle’s pints to wobble on the rough wood of the table. They’d found a rarity: a London pub that hadn’t turned its garden into a car park and sold a selection of decent beers. Lyle had decided that their latest staffing review should take place in sunlight and fresh air, with a pint to aid the proceedings. In fact they hadn’t got to the business part of the afternoon yet, having been satisfyingly side tracked by dissecting the New Boy’s performance.

“He’ll learn,” Lyle was saying when the low pitched roll of sound caused them both to look up. Their eye contact was brief but expressive: they both knew the sound of an explosion. They scanned the skies above the brick walls enclosing the small grassy area. The direction of the smoke plume wasn’t a surprise. There was one more moment of silent eye contact before both men were moving and Lyle’s glass smashed to the paved floor.

17.38.00

There was no one manning the safety barriers. Lyle didn’t like that. Whatever he thought of the New Boy, Becker was at least making an effort with security. He could smell and taste smoke; it burned acridly in the back of his throat. With Ditzy’s shorter stride keeping him a few seconds behind, they sprinted round to the main loading bay. The huddle of figures had a still look he liked even less. An explosion, a fire, they should be milling about, talking excitedly, shouting to each other. He’d seen figures frozen like that before. It was usually a sign of tragedy, of happenings so dreadful the mind was unsure how to react and so shut down.

There was a thud of boots behind him and Ditzy overtook him.

17.39.00

Dave “Ditzy” Owen could feel the adrenaline flooding his chest. He had seen what Lyle had not, past Connor Temple’s feet an arm thrown out, hand turned palm upwards. Quickly he made out the motionless figure on the ground. The Professor.

The frozen tableau surrounding Professor Cutter was not lost on him. Temple and Abby Maitland had their arms around each other, faces white. Miss Lewis had a blank uncomprehending look, her arms folded around her hunched body. Sir James was characteristically straight backed but he too was pale and as Ditzy approached he raised his voice.

“Someone get this man an ambulance!” It was the strained cry of a man who is used to knowing he is in charge but now faces something he cannot control.

Time was slowing for Ditzy. It was a sensation he was used to. Years of training and practical experience were kicking in and damping down the worst effects of the adrenaline surge. He could feel his subconscious shuffling routines and flow charts into readiness. Smoke inhalation? Burns? Blast trauma?

He could see the Professor clearly, now. The man was spread-eagled on his back - no dangers apparent, no blood, no burnt or damaged clothing, limbs straight with no deformities but, right there, just at chest level, was the dark eye of something Ditzy recognised instantly. How or why he didn’t know but the Professor had been shot.

Civilian bullets are often more damaging to tissue than are military bullets fired from rounds otherwise configured identically. Unlike military bullets, civilian bullets are not required to have a full metal jacket (a metal jacket completely covering  
the bullet tip […], and are therefore much more likely to deform or fragment in tissue. Because of this, wounds produced by civilian hunting rifles, shotguns, and large-caliber handguns are often more severe than military combat wounds.

17.40.00

The concrete was hard against his knees as he knelt at the man’s side. The resuscitation algorithm played itself out automatically.

“Professor Cutter!” Ditzy spoke sharply and clearly. As he had expected there was no response. He leaned closer to the man’s head and gave his shoulders a sharp shake. “CUTTER!” In a lower voice but still clearly he turned to Jenny Lewis. “What’s his name?”

“What?” Her voice shook before she gathered herself. “Nick. He’s… Nick.”

Ditzy was already turning back. “NICK! Come on, it’s Lieutenant Owen, the medic.”

He knew there would be no response but you followed the algorithm. Deviate and the overload of adrenaline would have you rushing ahead, forgetting vital things. As Ditzy tilted Cutter’s head back he sought out Lyle. A brief nod was all that was needed and Lyle took off at a sprint.

He wasn’t surprised at the stricken looks. Cutter’s breathing was shallow and barely there. He was pale and there was a worrying dusky tinge to the man’s lips. So, alive, able to breathe but not very efficiently; heart pumping but blood lacking in oxygen. Cutter’s t-shirt was stretchy and difficult to tear so Ditzy just shoved it out of the way. There was characteristic ashy tattooing on the fabric around the hole. Close range, then. Handgun.

“The characteristics and severity of a gunshot wound are determined by the design of the weapon and projectile, the intermediate targets the projectile encounters between the gun muzzle and the body, and the sequence of tissue encountered along the projectile path. Although the skill of the person firing the weapon affects the trajectory, chance also plays a role.”

 

17.41.00  
There was no blood. That could be worrying. Having shifted the t-shirt material the entry wound was small, dry and almost dead centre at the base of the Professor’s chest. In fact as Ditzy gently palpated the area he suspected the bullet had actually smashed through the very bottom of the sternum. Where it had gone next was something only an x-ray could say for sure but there was probably bleeding and if the blood wasn’t outside the body then it was going somewhere else it was likely to cause more trouble.

There was another problem. He watched Cutter’s chest. Yep. The movement was unequal. The left side inflated normally, the right didn’t move. Collapsed lung due to bone fragments or the bullet itself.

17.41.30

A circle of wide eyes greeted him as he looked up.

“What happened?”

Temple cleared his throat. His voice was high pitched. “He went back after Helen Cutter. He was gone so long I went to find him...”

It was probably not the time to point out the stupidity of this.

“He was sitting down. He wouldn’t let me move him.” The young man’s voice was blank and emotionless. “I sat with him until he passed out. Then I carried him out.”

Brave, thought Ditzy. Very brave and utterly lacking in any common sense. And evidently in shock but it would have to wait.

He placed his hand on the Professor’s torso. Cool. Clammy. Increasingly dusky lips. Hurry up, Lyle.

17.43.00

The rumble of a diesel engine broke the stillness. Lyle was backing towards the group in the battered old military jeep Ditzy had fitted out as a mobile surgery. Before the vehicle stopped he vaulted into the back and snatched two padded medical kits and an oxygen cylinder. Lyle dropped to the ground and came to join him. Thank god Lyle was here. This wasn’t a one man job and he didn’t think any of the others would be reliable. He knew Lyle could function effectively as another pair of hands.

Grab a Guedal airway, slide it into the guy’s mouth and turn. Oxygen mask next and then whack the valve to full. The hissing sound of the cylinder seemed oddly loud as he unrolled the first kit, rapidly pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves then grabbed a cannula. White or green? White, he decided. See if we can get a big one in.

“Wire him up,” he told Lyle. The other man started unravelling the wires for the defib. “No, dynamap first.”

Lyle nodded and wrapped a blood pressure cuff round Cutter’s arm. He added a finger clip and switched the dynamap on.

Several beeps. Ditzy kept one eye on the trace while palpating the man’s arm for a decent size vein. It didn’t feel promising...Shit.

 

17.44.00

BP 75/40 P128 SaO2 78%

 

So, definitely bleeding, and into a body cavity which could be bad or could be bloody disastrous – no way to tell at this stage – but with a blood pressure that low there was no chance with the white cannula – drop to the green and even that might be pushing it.

“Gelofusin,” he said to Lyle. “WHAT ABOUT THAT AMBULANCE?” He yelled at Lester.

Lyle stripped the cellophane wrapper from a plastic bottle of yellow fluid. He pulled a giving set from its packaging and started running the liquid through.

There was a vein! Ditzy slid the cannula home with relief. Access. He attached the giving set.

“Squeeze it in,” he told Lyle. “But carefully... don’t blow the vein. One bottle then stop”

He snatched up the defib pads and began peeling the backing off.

A pair of shiny black wingtips and pinstriped trousers with a knife edge crease appeared in his peripheral vision.

One pad portrait on the right upper chest/shoulder, the other landscape on the left lower ribs.

“The ambulance is stuck,” he heard Lester stay. “There’s a march and they’ve blocking all the major routes to us. I’ve got a police escort trying to get them through the back streets but they estimate 15 minutes.”

17.44.30

BP 68/37 P 135 SaO2 72%

Fuck.

Ditzy watched the readouts with one eye and the Professor’s increasingly laboured breathing with the other.

Decision time.

Stay and play or scoop and swoop?

Stay, try to stabilise Cutter while waiting for the NHS ambulance or throw everything in the back of the van and drive hell for leather for the nearest A&E? How much oxygen did he have left?

Need to release some of that pressure in the right side of the chest first so into the back of the van with him.

“Gonna need some help here,” Ditzy said, loudly. “Sir James you grab the fluid. Temple, come here. Lyle – stretcher.”

Lyle hastily handed off the Gelofusin bottle to Lester, showing him how to keep the pressure on. He pulled a fabric stretcher and poles from the back of the jeep spreading the canvas on the ground next to Cutter.

“Roll?” He asked. Ditzy nodded and Lyle rolled half the fabric before bringing it as close to Cutter as he could.

“Now.” Ditzy tilted the unconscious body towards him as gently as he could. Between them , working as carefully as possible, the two men eased the canvass under one side of Cutter and straightened it on the other. Lyle quickly grabbed the wooden poles and began sliding them into the canvass carrying loops

 

17.46.00

BP 60/30 p148 SaO2 69%

 

This was going bad.

“Into the jeep.” Ditzy said. “Quick and smooth. Sir James, keep that fluid going and do not allow the tubing to pull. Temple grab the foot end, Lyle up here with me.”

The defib and dynamap he rested on Cutter’s legs.

He was hoping Temple was strong enough to take the foot end when a small blonde figure appeared.

“I’ll take one side,” Abby Maitland said, more firmly that he would have expected from her white, tear stained face. He nodded. It didn’t matter as long as they got the man under cover ASAP.

“One, two three, lift!”

The foot end of the stretcher wobbled a bit but he and Lyle held the head end secure. Lyle climbed backwards into the jeep and Ditzy followed. They guided the wooden arms onto the supports and locked them.

“We need to bag,” he told Lyle reaching above his head to pull the bulbous ambubag down. Lyle attached the oxygen line and one large hand held it in place as the other started pumping oxygen into Cutter.

“I’m going to intubate,” Ditzy said. “Sir James, is that fluid gone?”

“Yes,” said Lester. “Another?”

“No, not yet. Not while I think he’s bleeding into his chest.”

Lester nodded sharply but didn’t speak. Abby Maitland and Temple were leaning up against the jeep’s rear. They were clinging to each other again.

17.47.00

BP 48/28 P155 Sao2 65%

 

Perfusion was poor because of the blood loss so the sats might well not be that bad. He could hope. The fluid challenge had failed. Cutter’s blood pressure was still in his boots and giving more volume before sorting the chest would make things worse. This really wasn’t looking good.

There was a selection of dressing packs in another carry case. Ditzy found what he was looking for and rapidly laid out a laryngoscope, an ET tube and a small bandage. Pull the man’s head back, insert the Laryngoscope, visualise the larynx and slide the ET tube along the blade of the scope. Inflate the cuff to seal it and tie it in place with the bandage looped behind the head. Pull the mask off the ambubag and attach it directly to the tube. Good.

He squeezed the bag, pushing the oxygen directly into Cutter’s one working lung. Damn! That was stiff!

“Keep working at it,” he told Lyle who nodded and started using the full strength of his big hands to force the lung to ventilate.

“BECKER!” He yelled, coming to a decision. The New Boy appeared, looking as grim as his pretty boy looks allowed.

“How’s your advanced driving?” Ditzy asked, his hands busy laying out the next set of equipment as he spoke.

“First rate,” Becker told him grinning in anticipation.

“Then get us to the nearest casualty.”

“You got it.” Becker turned on his heel and Ditzy started unwrapping the largest bore needle he had.

17.48.00

BP 55/25 P162 SaO2 62%

“It’s going to get messy,” he said and feeling with his finger tips pushed the trochar into the intercostal space between two of the Professor’s ribs. Blood jetted out of the hollow cannula. Ditzy had the experience to duck but the spray caught Lester right in the chest before the medic had a chance to get a bowl in place.

“Sorry about the suit, Sir,” he said absently, watching the displays, hoping to see the blood oxygen saturation start to improve.

“If blood on my clothes concerned me, Lieutenant Owen, let me assure you I would never have survived my first civil service meeting, let alone enjoyed a successful career in Government.” Lester’s voice was clipped and as calm as if he was sitting at his desk rather than crouched in a makeshift ambulance with a Gelofusin bottle clamped under his armpit, blood on his face as he wrestled with his mobile phone.

17.48.30

BP 49/28 p172 SaO2 58%

The jeep was moving. Ditzy braced himself against one wall. The blood continued to jet and he changed bowls. He rapidly inserted another wide bore trochar. Blood jetted from that too. He suspected he knew what was going on in Cutter’s chest and it really, really wasn’t good.

17.49.00

BP --- P --- SaO2 ----

The alarm didn’t surprise him, nor did the flatline on the ECG. Shit.

“Keep bagging,” he told Lyle. “Can you do compressions?”

The bigger man nodded and leaned over Cutter to rest the heels of his palms on the man’s chest. As he rocked his arms up and down Ditzy almost laughed. Lyle was singing under his breath.

“Nellie the elephant packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus. Off she went with a...”

Sir James was staring at Lyle as though he’d gone mad when the other man switched back to squeezing the ambubag then started humming again as he performed chest compressions.

“Rhythm, Sir,” said Ditzy, hurrying to unlock the drug safe welded next to the wheel arch. “Keeps you at the right speed.”

He pulled up ten mls of adrenaline. 1 mg to start with. He injected it into the giving set Lester was holding.

Wait two minutes. Continue CPR. With each compression of his chest blood spurted even further and faster,

17.51.00

BP -- P -- SaO2—

More adrenaline. More CPR. Try a third Trochar.

The jeep stopped. Becker’s bad language could be heard from the front.

“Road’s blocked,” he called. “I’ll try another way.”

Fuck.

17.53.00

BP-- P-- SaO2---

More adrenaline. Dammit – nothing was going to work without fixing the basic problem. Ditzy was pretty sure he knew what it was. Cutter had bled into his right pleural cavity – and was still doing so – to the point that his heart was being compressed and was unable to beat. There was too much blood for the trochars to let it out fast enough.

17.55.00

BP-- P-- SaO2---

Six minutes and no sign of a heart beat.

“BECKER!” Ditzy yelled. “ETA?”

“About ten minutes,” was the reply accompanied by a lurch and bump and a feeling of acceleration. Becker seemed to have mounted the pavement so god knew where he was going.

Another ten minutes, thought Ditzy, as he shoved more adrenaline into Cutter,

Too long.

There was nothing wrong with the Professor’s heart. If it wasn’t being crushed by the pressure of blood pouring into his chest it would still be beating. Remove that pressure and it should beat again. The trochars weren’t enough to drain the chest fast enough.

Ten minutes and Cutter would be beyond help. CPR wasn’t that efficient.

Ditzy took a deep breath. Right then. He’d never done it before but he’d seen it done and in medicine that was usually considered good enough.

He reached into another carry case and started to lay out equipment.

“Sir James,” he said. “Grab a handful of bottles out of the box, there. When I tell you start squeezing fluid in as fast as possible. Okay?”

Lester nodded. Blood had dried on his face and there was a spray across the white of his shirt.

“Lyle, you okay carrying on?”

The bigger man nodded although he was sweating and slightly red in the face. CPR on a man of Cutter’s age and size was surprisingly tiring.

The “clam shell” (bilateral anterior) thoracotomy [...] provides excellent exposure of the heart and lower mediastinum. Importantly it can be performed on the supine patient and also provides access to both pleural cavities. It allows the operator to view the anatomy from the front, making orientation easy...Opportunity for practice is extremely limited. The first time this procedure is performed it is likely to be for real.

17.56.30

BP -- P-- SaO2 --

The jeep swerved and Ditzy heard some creative swearing in Becker’s cut glass tones.

He laid the equipment on a sterile field on top of the equipment case. Large clamps, large forceps, large scissors.

“Anybody squeamish?” He asked cheerfully. A plan. That always gave you a sense of control. And he’d always wanted to try this.

“Why?” asked Lyle, suspiciously.

“We’re doing surgery,” he replied, swabbing skin prep over the Professor’s chest. There was a sharp smell of alcohol and several dribbles ran down Cutter’s sides leaving pink trails. The man’s torso was now brightly coloured, chest hair matted in tight coils.

“Better ring Casualty, Sir James.”

The latex gloves were sterile and he slipped into them easily.

“Tell them we’re bringing in an adult male with gunshot trauma to the chest, probable cardiac tamponade with a clamshell thoracotomy.”

It was impressive that the man managed to repeat that back first time. He cocked up the pronunciation a bit but it should be close enough for an emergency team to make out.

There was a question on Sir James face as he began dialling one handed.

“I’m cutting his chest open,” Ditzy explained.

Lyle’s eyes went wide.

It is important to have a realistic expectation of what can be achieved by emergency thoracotomy. The procedure tackles a single pathology – cardiac tamponade with a controllable wound in the heart. If the underlying injury is any more complex than this a good outcome is unlikely outside a specialist surgical centre with a fully equipped cardiothoracic theatre and cardiac bypass facilities.

17.57.00

BP-- P-- SaO2 –

Okay. Here went nothing.

Ditzy felt his consciousness narrow, cutting off awareness of the sound of the jeep and its motion. He corrected for the vehicle’s sway automatically. He didn’t hear Lyle’s heavy breathing or the one sided conversation Lester was having into the mobile phone clamped between shoulder and head. The feeling of cramp in his lower back and legs receded.

First the bilateral thoracostomies. Ditzy picked up the scalpel and blunt forceps. He ran fingers down the Professor’s side in a line central to the axilla feeling for the space between the fifth and sixth ribs on the side where the lung was inflated. The initial incision, dividing the intercostals muscles and the parietal pleura that overlaid the lung, was straight forward, very similar to inserting a chest drain. He then repeated the orientation on the other side, guided by the two needles that continued to jet blood.

“Ready to duck, guys,” was all he said as he slid the scalpel home and widened the incision.

There was an instant high pressure jet of hot blood that caught all of them. Ditzy ducked his head down to keep his eyes clear but he knew he’d be washing it out of his hair later. Sir James exclaimed once and then was silent. Two spots dropped back from the roof of the jeep.

Lyle was grinning. “How’s that for a money shot?” he asked.

 

17.58.30

BP -- P-- Sa02—

Fuck and double fuck.

There’d been a reasonable chance that decompressing the chest would allow the heart to start beating again.

When, Ditzy wondered, had things ever been that simple?

“Start pumping that jelly in, “ he told Sir James. “The fluid,” he added at the man's blank look.

Lester nodded sharply and tucked the bottle between his upper arm and torso.

Stage two and the point at which life got really interesting.

The scalpel slid cleanly through the skin and underlying fascia as Ditzy drew it along the fifth intercostal space until both initial thoracostamies were joined. He laid the scalpel back on the sterile field, swabbed blood from the wound and took hold of the heavy scissors.

Okay, slide two fingers deep into the incision, hold the spongy texture of he lung out of the way while the other hand uses the scissors to chop through all the other tissue layers – intercostal muscle, pleura, what have you. Stop at the sternum. Repeat to the other side.

Ditzy rested his aching hand for a brief moment with only the sternal bridge left to cut. He hoped the scissors would be strong enough. He didn't have a Gigli saw to complete the procedure.

Taking a breath, he slid the open scissors into position, pushed the single palpable lung out of the way and started to cut.

There was a sound like a chicken being jointed. Lyle went white and Sr James allowed a muffled exclamation to escape. Ditzy ignored them and tilted his head so that the drop of sweat running down his forehead would drip neither into his eye nor onto the professor.

He held a second pair of gloves out to Lyle who cursed in resignation and began struggling into them.

“Sir James I need you to bag.”

“To what?” Lester leaned over them, the hem of his jacket brushing the edge of the sterile field. Ditzy swore and Sir James jerked back.

“Here,” Lyle said, gesturing to the ambubag. “Squeeze it – hard - about the same rate you're breathing.”

The look on Sir James face was indescribable.

 

BP – P-- Sa02 –

Ditzy lifted the section of ribcage and sternum so Lyle could hold it in an open position.

He could see the mass of blood filling the right lung space and the black tense ball that obscured the heart. Not just a tension haemothorax, then, but a tamponade. Blood was filling the membrane around the heart and compressing the organ.

It was difficult to get hold of the pericardial membrane - the underlying blood stretched it taut and slick but he finally hooked it with the forceps and pulled it upwards, snipping at the tough membrane with the smaller scissors. There was another eruption of blood. As it drained away he saw a large clot sitting over the heart muscle. That moved easily under his gloved finger and there was the heart looking pink and healthy.

Ditzy stared at it, willing it to do the right thing. Three outcomes were possible. The heart could spontaneously return to normal, it could sit there stubbornly and refuse to move or…

The curve of the organ quivered.

Yes, thought Ditzy. Yes, come on you bastard! Come on…

The heart muscle flushed, twitched and began an erratic, slow beat.

 

BP 35/28 P 34 Sa02 72%

It wasn’t the best outcome but it wasn’t the worst, either.

The Professor’s heart was beating but slowly, irregularly and weakly.

“Right,” Ditzy said, sliding his gloved hands into the chest cavity. “Sir James - keep that fluid coming as fast as you can. Lyle, can you hold the chest with one hand and bag with the other.”

Lester nodded, replacing the empty gelofusin bottle with a fresh one. Lyle caught the bulb of the ambubag against the stretcher and leaned on it.

Ditzy slid his hands over the slick surface of the heart and squeezed. Quick strokes milking the blood from the apex to the tip as near to eighty times a minute as he could manage. That wouldn’t last long, he knew. This was a short term emergency technique.

“BECKER,” he yelled. “WE NEED TO BE THERE. NOW!”

“ETA three minutes,” was the muffled reply. “I’ve phoned again to let ‘em know. Trauma team standing by.”

The jeep turned a corner sharply and Ditzy almost lost both rhythm and grip. His fingers were starting cramp and he was suddenly aware that he had been bent almost double for several minutes. His lower back was burning with muscle fatigue.

Just a few minutes more, he told himself, just keep going. The pain doesn’t matter, just keep going.

 

BP 45/30 P69 SaO2 77%

The jeep slid to a halt. Suddenly there were new people in with him. Lester and Lyle were pushed out of the way as businesslike shapes in pale green scrubs took their place. A woman with a stethoscope bunched in her hip pocket scrunched in next to him.

“Hand cramping?” She asked. He nodded, gritting his teeth as she pulled a packet of sterile gloves out and expertly slid her hands into them. “I’ve got it,” she told him, hands sliding along his to take over the compressions.

Ditzy moved backwards as other figures lifted the stretcher down. He jogged alongside the group as they ran towards the Emergency entrance. The doctor performing the compressions had a green sterile towel around her wrist, covering the incision.

“Gunshot,” he said to the man carrying a set of notes. “Close range, right tension haemothorax with cardiac tamponade…”

They were through the sliding doors and heading towards the theatre suite. Internally pressurised doors opened with a whoosh of cool air giving him a glimpse of fully gowned and masked figures waiting and then he was left outside.

*****************************************

 

Six of them sat in the shiny pastel chairs. A TV above their heads played Sky news silently. A drift of polystyrene coffee cups littered the floor at their feet. Jon Lyle propped up the corner of the room.

“It’s been nearly two hours,” Miss Lewis said fretfully.

“And could be a lot longer, yet,” Ditzy told her firmly. He had washed his hands and face and as much of his hair as he could but it still looked sticky and crusty.

The door to the waiting room opened and they all jerked around. Lester entered. He had tidied up, too but even with a fresh shirt he remained crumpled looking.

Their eyes followed him anxiously as he lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs. His suit jacket hung open as he leaned his elbows on his knees. There was a long silence.

“Well?” Jenny Lewis asked in an uncertain voice that was far removed from her usual crisp tones.

Lester looked up. To Lyle's eyes he seemed to brace himself.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly.

Ditzy slumped in his chair.

Miss Lewis said nothing, merely bowing her head.

“What?” Connor Temple was on his feet. “No. No, that's not possible... that's...”

“Professor Cutter never regained consciousness,” Sir James said tonelessly. “He died on the operating table.”

“No,” Temple repeated. “No. He can't - ” He shook his head and blinked hard. “I can't...” He rubbed a hand over his face and cleared his throat. “I'll just – I'm going to...” He yanked the door open and left at almost a run.

Abby Maitland raised a tear stained face. “I'll go after him,” she said.

“Thankyou.” Lester said.

“Cutter...” Her voice broke and she tried again. “Well, I think he'd want me to.” There was a surprising dignity to her as she followed Temple out if the door.

Lyle looked at Ditzy. The younger man had a resigned look on his face. It wasn't grief or sorrow as such, more regret and a weariness of spirit.

“Jenny?” Lester asked.

“Yes?” Miss Lewis raised her head. Her cheeks were dry but she looked brittle somehow, as though one blow would cause her to fracture into pieces.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said with a ghost of her usual brisk tones. “We'll need a story, James. I...”

“No,” He was shaking his head. “No, Jenny. Go home. I'll deal with this. I've arranged a car for you and Owen. It's waiting outside.”

“I should -”

“No, Jenny. You aren't indispensable, you know.” Lester sounded querulous. “I will deal with this. Go. Home.”

Jenny glared at him.

Lyle nodded at Ditzy. “I'm sorry, Ditz. Nobody could've done anymore. Get yourself home – I don't want to see you tomorrow either, understand? Make sure Miss Lewis gets home, will you?”

Ditzy nodded and followed her out.

“You too,” Lester said to Lyle.

Jon rested himself more comfortably against the door. “Out with it, James.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Lester said coldly. He stood but as Lyle still had two inches of height on him it failed as a dominance gesture.

“Of course you do,” he retorted. “You've got your mask on which means you're conning someone.”

James sighed and wiped his face with both hands. His shoulders slumped. “I should have sent you away first. You're starting know me too well.”

“So what?” Lyle asked easily. He moved behind Lester to place both hands on his shoulders. For a moment he thought he felt the other man relax into his grip. “You know you can trust me.”

The tension returned to James's body in a rush. He moved away and folded his arms.

“Okay,” Jon said with exaggerated patience. “What's the matter?”

“Oh nothing,” Lester snarled. “Only losing the only scientist who seems to have any grasp on what's happening, fighting for my professional life and the survival of this team against a woman who makes Helen Cutter look sentimental, who will take me down if she possibly can and place the anomaly operation entirely in the hands of the military and I don't need to tell you what will happen in those circumstances!”

Lyle nodded. They had a shared opinion about Military Intelligence.

James slumped back into the chair. “He's not dead, Jon.”

“I guessed that. That was a bastard thing to do to Ditzy, by the way. So why? What are you up to?”

“Helen Cutter!” Lester said harshly. “She got through all our security as though it wasn't there – more than once! Do you imagine a public hospital – or even a military one – will stop her?”

“So, you let her believe she's succeeded? And, what? Hide him away somewhere under a fake ID?”

The other man nodded wearily.

“Great. So what's the problem?”

James shook his head, stared at the stained tobacco coloured carpet tiles then levered himself to his feet. He retreated a little and angled himself away from Lyle.

“I'm fighting for my life,” he said.

“Yeah, you said.”

“She – they - will use anything they can to destroy me. Do you understand that?”

“I know the boys and I'd back you against anyone and anything – up to and including one of those raptor things that nearly ate Kermit last month.” Lyle's tone was humorous but he could feel a cold heavy weight growing in his stomach.

“A raptor would be easy in comparison.” Lester's voice was back to the unemotional blank that was his daily mask. “No part of my professional or personal life will be off limits. My personal life – you understand?”

“So we get outed,” Jon shrugged. “It's not like nobody knows, anyway.”

“I wish it were that simple.” The other man hesitated. “There were always going to be consequences. You've already lost a promotion because of it...”

“I wasn't sure,” Lyle muttered, afraid he sounded sulky.

“Well, now you are. You can't imagine I agreed to Becker's appointment because I thought he was better than you?” He could almost imagine a pleading note in James's voice. “Becker was a compromise. Your promotion was never on the table. These things are never spelled out but it was clear that you were considered to have a conflict of interest.”

There was a ball of ice in Jon's chest now. He braced himself.

“So, now we're a liability and this is “Dear Jon” is it?”

The other man said nothing.

“Is the civil service really that conservative these days?”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, it is when it suits it. The point is that Johnson will be trying to smear me and she will work up the worst possible spin on everything. Sir James Lester and his bit of rough – she'll have me dogging on Wimbledon Common before she's through. My ex-wife becomes a martyr, my children read about their father's sex life in the papers, questions about my “soundness” are asked and before you know it my career is dead in the water.”

“There are other careers -” Lyle began, hoping he didn't sound desperate.

“And what happens to the ARC?” Lester demanded. “I cannot and will not allow this operation to be disbanded.”

“Anyone would think you've gone soft,” Jon said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “The great Sir James loyal to a penny ante science project-”

“At the risk of sounding like Cutter, this is far too important to be left to any government faction. Good god, they can't even control the supply of oil without going to war – what on earth would they do with rifts in time?” He seemed to square his shoulders then turned to face Jon. “I'm sorry. I have to be seen to be above reproach. It may not be forever...”

“So I'm supposed to wait for you – to sit by with my thumb up my arse until- what? You've slain the dragon Johnson and come riding back on your white charger? This time he was unable to hide the anger in his voice.

“Come on Jon,” Lester said impatiently. “You must have thought through a scenario like this – we could have chalked that one time up to stress and adrenaline but we didn't. We had our eyes open -”

“Did I think about situations like this?” Lyle asked tightly. “Actually no, I didn't. I just went with the whole thing. Don't worry. I'll go collect the bits I left at your flat. I'll leave the key with the doorman. I really didn't weigh up all the pros and cons before I jumped into this. I just... jumped. I didn't stop to think about,” his voice acquired a sneer, “the possible effects on my career.”

He left the room without even slamming the door.

James Lester stared after him. “I did,” he said softly

 

Ditzy opened the door to the small flat he shared with his girlfriend and became Dave. Claire was sitting on the sofa next to a pile of marking. As he came in she put aside the exercise book she was working on.

“Rough day?” she asked reading his face as well as ever.

He nodded feeling the sickening after effects of too much adrenaline, too much effort and too much disappointment. She hugged him and she was warm and soft and smelled good. She felt of home and safety and comfort. He felt the ache in his back and legs start to recede.

“Come on,” she said, leading him to the bedrooms. She pushed open one door and pulled him towards the cot against the far wall. Dave leaned on the rails and gazed down at his daughter. She shifted in her sleep and smacked her lips. He smiled down at the newness of her, the beginnings inherent in her small form.

There was a balance. You couldn't always see it but it was there.

Claire tugged his hand again, this time pulling him towards the other bedroom. He followed willingly.

Sometimes all you could do was remember that you were still alive.


End file.
